


For Golden Friends I Have

by chivalryandgreentea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: And all that jazz, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Era, Caretaking, Cholera, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27011971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chivalryandgreentea/pseuds/chivalryandgreentea
Summary: Enjolras rummaged through his pockets for the spare key he had convinced Feuilly to give him in case of emergencies and opened the door."Feuilly?" He called, sweeping his gaze over the room, of which there were two in Feuilly's bare lodgings.There was no answer.
Relationships: Enjolras & Feuilly (Les Misérables), Feuilly & Les Amis de l'ABC
Comments: 27
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [megSUPERFAN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/megSUPERFAN/gifts).



> requested by the wonderful megSUPERFAN, who's had the patience of a saint waiting for the updates on this fic. thanks again meg for all your support! <3 
> 
> this is a pre-written work, so all the chapters are finished (except the fifth) and will be posted once or twice a week. 
> 
> the title is based off of the poem "With Rue My Heart Is Laden" by A.E. Housman.
> 
> *also: though i've done some research, i'm sure that some items concerning medical accuracy aren't 100%. my conscience is ok with this.*

When Feuilly woke up, he knew immediately that something was wrong.

Very, _very_ wrong.

Lying curled up on his side (a position in which he never slept), a sharp, stabbing pain cramping in his ribs flooded Feuilly's senses, and he inadvertently let a tired moan of pain escape his mouth. He tried to open his eyes, but in vain; they were heavy, _so_ heavy, and more pain burned at his eyelids. It burned everywhere.

When Feuilly woke up, he was afraid.

* * *

Enjolras didn't frequently make it a habit to call on Feuilly in between classes, but the hardworking fanmaker had a rare half-day off and it was only right that he should have some company in the afternoon. Reaching the dingier and shabbier apartment buildings of the lower ends of Paris, Enjolras knocked on the door.

Seconds passed, then a full minute before Enjolras tried several more times. Looking around, Enjolras noticed an open window in one of Feuilly's rooms and frowned. Feuilly was exceptionally careful to protect his precious few possessions from thieves.

Enjolras rummaged through his pockets for the spare key he had convinced Feuilly to give him in case of emergencies and opened the door.

"Feuilly?" He called, shutting the door behind him as he entered, sweeping his gaze over the room, of which there were two in Feuilly's bare lodgings.

There was no answer.

Enjolras allowed his worry to take over, and immediately his pulse quickened and he had to swallow back a lump in his throat. "Feuilly?" He called again, only to be met with silence once again.

 _You're always worrying_ , Enjolras remembered Feuilly saying to him more than once. And he was. Feuilly was alone in so many ways apart from the rest of their group - as a leader and friend Enjolras couldn't help feeling responsible for him. Feuilly worked harder, suffered harder than everyone - it was for him Les Amis fought. He stood for a moment debating whether or not to leave. If Feuilly were here, he wouldn't be pleased that Enjolras had come into his room without permission. If he wasn't, then - _then_ Enjolras would truly start to worry.

Enjolras burst through the door of Feuilly's bedroom and froze.

Feuilly was lying on the floor on his stomach, his arm cradling his head, and a chamber pot reeking of vomit beside him. Enjolras had felt the briefest flicker of relief on the knowledge of Feuilly's presence, but it was immediately replaced with a strong sense of panic. He rushed over to Feuilly and crouched down, shaking his shoulder gently.

"Feuilly, _mon ami_ , what's happened?"

Feuilly moaned painfully at Enjolras' touch. As Feuilly rolled onto his back a few inches, Enjolras saw he was completely drenched in sweat, and his cheeks were flushed with heat. Enjolras pressed the back of his hand to Feuilly's forehead, trying not to flinch back at the heat emanating from him.

"Oh, Feuilly, you're not well," Enjolras murmured, rubbing Feuilly's back soothingly. _Combeferre will know what to do, or Joly_. Enjolras almost groaned aloud. To fetch either of them he would have to leave Feuilly alone again, and he was too afraid of what might happen if he did.

"Help me," Feuilly whispered, and that was when Enjolras finally cracked.

Never, in all the years he had known him, had Enjolras ever heard Feuilly ask for help in this way. His pride and independence had simply never allowed it. To see strong, hard-working, caring Feuilly stripped of that dignity was somehow worse than anything. Enjolras inhaled deeply to steady himself.

"Of course, Feuilly," Enjolras said, "Let's get you back in bed first. Everything will be alright."

Would it? Enjolras suddenly felt a pit in his stomach at the thought of what it was that Feuilly might have. He was no doctor, but Feuilly's illness seemed severe, even for a regular fever. Feuilly _needed_ a doctor.

Enjolras slid his arms around Feuilly's shoulders, grunting under his weight as he pushed him up onto his feet. Feuilly must have been completely unconscious by then, however, and was nothing but dead weight. Before Feuilly could fall over and crush him, Enjolras managed to scoop him up into his arms. With the utmost gentleness and care, he set Feuilly down on his bed, tucking the blankets around him. Feuilly shook like a leaf, and his teeth started chattering against each other.

Enjolras swallowed, telling himself to remain calm, reminding himself that everything would be alright. With one quick glance at Feuilly, Enjolras stepped out of the apartment and searched wildly for any passerby who happened to be walking.

"Excuse me, monsieur!" Enjolras cried out, relief slamming into his chest as he caught sight of a man pushing a wheelbarrow of produce. The man stopped and turned to meet him with an irritated stare. "Please - I need you to take a message. It'll be well worth your time, I promise you."

That was all it took. Enjolras scribbled a note for Combeferre, his hands trembling slightly as he passed the note to the produce man. "Get this to him within a quarter of an hour," Enjolras ordered, dropping several francs into the man's hand.

* * *

"I came as soon as I could," Combeferre said as he entered the room. Enjolras rose from the floor where he'd been sitting to be near Feuilly.

"Thank god - I don't - I didn't know what to do, 'Ferre," Enjolas said, too exhausted to be ashamed of the break in his composure.

Combeferre nodded briskly as he passed, giving Enjolras' shoulder a quick squeeze as he made his way over to Feuilly. Enjolras watched as Combeferre started to examine Feuilly, touching his fingertips to his neck to check for a pulse and pressing his hand against his forehead.

"I've sent a message to Joly, and he should be on his way by now. Come here, Enjolras, and help me undress him. We have to bring his temperature down."

Enjolras was frozen in place, his mind too confused to respond. Combeferre was serious - more serious than he'd seen him in ages. He struggled to react properly.

"Enjolras," Combeferre ordered sharply, "Move. _Now_."

Enjolras snapped back to attention, glad beyond belief that someone competent in such things was finally in charge. He helped Combeferre first remove Feuilly's trousers, then the waistcoat which had been hastily buttoned, till finally Feuilly was reduced to his chemise.

Combeferre was cool and calm next to Enjolras' frazzled senses, and his commands were a balm to Enjolras' confused mind. "Fill a tub with water - there's a pump outside. Fetch something for Feuilly to drink. He's extremely dehydrated and he's already lost a lot of fluids."

When Enjolras was finished, he returned to see Combeferre holding Feuilly as Feuilly emptied the contents of his stomach into the chamber pot. Combeferre smoothed Feuilly's hair back, which was now soaked through with sweat.

Combeferre took the glass of water from Enjolras' hands and lifted it to Feuilly's lips to drink.

"What do you need?" Enjolras asked.

Combeferre didn't look up as he helped settle Feuilly back in bed. "Fetch me some towels - wet and dry."

Enjolras returned with the towels, watching helplessly as Combeferre lay a damp towel across Feuilly's forehead. Feuilly jerked away from the cold cloth, but Combeferre held him back from flinging it off his forehead, murmuring something in comfort. Again Enjolras asked Combeferre what he could do. This time, Combeferre looked up, his eyes shadowed with something grave.

Combeferre shook his head slowly and said, "There's nothing you can do. I don't think there's anything anyone can do."

* * *

When Joly came, Combeferre took him aside for a brief word, the result of which caused Joly to grow pale. Enjolras strained to hear what they were saying and failed.

"I need to see for myself," Joly said, his voice shaky but determined. He went into Feuilly's room and shut the door behind him, leaving Combeferre and Enjolras alone in the main room.

As the minutes slowly wore on, Enjolras finally turned to Combeferre and said quietly, "Please, Combeferre. I need to know. What is it?"

Combeferre opened his mouth and immediately shut it again. He shook his head, silencing Enjolras' future protest with a look. "Let's wait for Joly to come out and form his opinion. These things do matter in medicine. Let us hope that I am wrong," he said, the last statement quieter than the others.

When Joly finally emerged from Feuilly's room, his eyes immediately fell upon Combeferre and he nodded. The look between them was so terribly full of secret understanding that Enjolras feared he might be sick himself with the anxiety of not knowing.

"Well?" Enjolras found himself demanding, rather unfairly, he thought, considering how hard Combeferre and Joly were working. But his impatience to hear of Feuilly overrode everything else at that moment. "Tell me, one of you. What's wrong with him?"

Joly raised his head and seemed to struggle to meet Enjolras' eyes. "Enjolras...it's cholera."

Enjolras' heart thudded heavily in his chest. He didn't fully know what this entailed, except for the fact that it seemed to be a rapidly spreading disease as of late. "It's curable, though, isn't it?"

Joly and Combeferre exchanged sad looks.

"Isn't it?" Enjolras repeated.

Combeferre shook his head. "Not usually, Enjolras. There's nothing we can do for him beyond keeping him hydrated and his fever down." He paused, allowing the information to sink in. "It's up to Feuilly to come through this."


	2. Chapter II

All Combeferre could think about was how small Feuilly looked in bed.

He should keep thinking about possible treatments. He should be considering the next steps needed to be taken in order to decrease the risk to Feuilly. In the hours that had passed until night fell, Combeferre had known what he had needed to do. Those hours had been spent mopping Feuilly's brow with the cool towels, cleaning out the chamber pot, checking Feuilly's pulse and breathing rate, and holding Feuilly as he emptied the contents of his stomach and soiled his clothing.

And now Feuilly finally slept.

Exhausted from the physical and emotional toll the day had taken, Combeferre sat on the little stool he had brought out from Feuilly's kitchen and placed beside Feuilly's bed. Enjolras sat on the floor against Feuilly's bed a few feet away; despite pleading from both Combeferre and Joly to leave, he'd refused to leave Feuilly's side, and had eventually fallen asleep.

Joly, too, had refused to leave, until Combeferre's frustration reached a point which made it impossible for him to remain. In Feuilly's small bedroom, there was hardly room enough for one person, let alone three. With Joly's unnecessary fussing over Enjolras getting sick, Combeferre had told him to get some rest; Joly had only finally consented with the intentions of trading places in an hour or two. However, Combeferre had found that as long as he had something to do, his fear and worry could be better kept in check.

Combeferre watched the unsteady rise and fall of Feuilly's chest, deep in thought. His lids grew heavy, and several times he caught himself dozing with his chin on his chest. Each time Combeferre jolted awake, he told himself he would fetch Joly in a minute. For now he would return his attention to Feuilly.

Even in sleep, Feuilly did not escape the pain and misery of the illness by which he'd been cruelly struck down; Feuilly's face contorting painfully in his sleep finally brought Combeferre around to check his watch. With a heavy sigh, Combeferre got to his feet and crept into the cramped kitchen, returning a minute later with a new glass of water.

"Feuilly," Combeferre said, patting Feuilly's cheek gently to wake him up. Feuilly stirred, but didn't open his eyes. "Feuilly," Combeferre repeated, louder this time, and stern, "It's time for you to rehydrate again. To get through this you need to drink a great deal of fluids."

Feuilly shook his head a fraction of an inch, his eyes still shut. "It hurts," he whispered almost inaudibly. Combeferre swallowed down his hesitation, ignoring the stinging at the back of his eyes.

"I know, _mon ami_ , and you've done a wonderful job staying strong through this. Just a little more, please." When Feuilly did not respond, Combeferre continued with a little more urgency, "Feuilly, you must drink - you know very well that I will force you if needs be."

Feuilly finally opened his eyes a sliver and nodded. Combeferre helped him sit up, and though he knew he was being as gentle as possible, he didn't miss Feuilly's quiet hiss of pain.

Unable to hold the glass himself, Feuilly had to comply with Combeferre's orders of being helped to drink. As Feuilly drank, Combeferre discreetly observed the dilation of Feuilly's pupils, and pressed his hand both to comfort Feuilly and to feel his pulse and temperature. Feuilly was still warm - too warm.

Combeferre helped Feuilly lay back down, and when Feuilly's head rested on his pillow he murmured something inaudibly to Combeferre, already nearly asleep again.

"Feuilly, what is it?" Combeferre asked quietly, worry pricking at him.

"Need...to tell my work supervisor I'm -" Feuilly's face suddenly contorted into an expression of agony as he curled up into himself, clutching at his stomach.

Combeferre helped Feuilly straighten himself out, disregarding Feuilly's weak pleas to be left alone.

"I'll take care of it - stay a moment, Feuilly, alright? I'll fetch some tea and liniments to help soothe the pains." Combeferre turned around quickly and started for the kitchen to fetch his medical bag so Feuilly would not see his face. He would get the liniments, rub them to soothe Feuilly's aches, and then what? There was no cure, no real end to this except -

Combeferre closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temple. He had to get through this night. He had to get Feuilly through this night.

He nudged Enjolras awake from his position near Feuilly's bed, indicating for him to keep watch over Feuilly as Combeferre left the room. Enjolras immediately replaced Combeferre's position on the stool, taking Feuilly's hand

"You should have woken me hours ago."

Combeferre looked up to see Joly standing in the doorway. Despite the previous comment, Joly appeared to have spent an uncomfortable time "resting" at Feuilly's table. His eyes were ringed with darkening shadows, and he nearly tripped over his bare feet in exhaustion as he moved aside for Combeferre.

Combeferre shook his head, gesturing for Joly to move to the kitchen. Combeferre's shoulders were weary and ached with bending over Feuilly these past few hours; he rolled them back a few times as Joly watched him expectantly. Somehow, the delay only made it harder for Combeferre to meet Joly's eyes.

"Well?"

Joly's voice was hardly more than a whisper, and yet Combeferre could still detect all the hope and fear that that one, small word contained. He forced himself to get a start on the tea, and ordered Joly to fetch his medicine bag from the table. Having bought himself a few seconds to collect his thoughts, Combeferre inhaled deeply to steady himself, making sure that when he spoke, his voice would be even and neutral, and would not betray any other part of himself.

"Do you think you can ask Bossuet to go to Feuilly's workplace?" Combeferre asked, despite the knowledge that skirting the topic at hand would only give Joly further cause for anxiety. "Let him know Feuilly will not be coming in for work for a while. I believe he was even trying to rise just now to go tell his supervisor himself."

Joly nodded distractedly, his eyes fixed on Combeferre. "Yes, but what of his condition?" His voice rose in pitch and volume as Combeferre still fought to answer. "Combeferre?"

"His fever has gone down, but barely. He was having a harder time of it -" Combeferre checked his watch - "two hours ago. He's been sleeping." At this, Joly's shoulders slumped with relief, making it all the more tempting for Combeferre to leave it at that.

Joly, however, appeared to understand immediately that all was not well. "Combeferre," he said softly, "what is it?"

Combeferre was silent. He knew what Joly would say to challenge him and counter his doubts - it was a large part of why they got on so well. Worse, however, was the worry that Joly might agree with him.

"I am afraid we might be holding out on false hope, Joly. It will be a miracle if he lasts the hour, let alone the night."

Joly froze and was silent. He stared at Combeferre with an accusing look of betrayal that sent a sharp pain through Combeferre's own chest. "You have no faith in Feuilly."

"Of course I do," Combeferre said sharply, "But he's still in pain, Joly, nearly delirious with it, only now he's simply too tired to even be sick in the pot. Look at the signs. You forget, I have had to witness this again and again with dozens of cholera patients - he's progressed too far in this. We should tell the others before it is too late. There is no cure, Joly, how can we possibly -"

"How can you say that?" Joly asked, "how can you forsake our friend with these words? We are his doctors now. It is up to you to do everything in your power to save him, whether you have faith in your abilities or not."

Combeferre's head ached with the weight of the obligations that always, always fell to him. It was one thing to tend to ill strangers in the hospital, knowing there was nothing he could do to help - the grief was painful then, overwhelming, even - but there was always someone else to save.

On the other hand, having to force himself to maintain false hope for Feuilly, his friend? To feel that terrible squeezing pressure in his chest as he treated Feuilly with vain hopes? Would it not be better to prepare himself now, rather than being struck blindsided should Feuilly die?

Combeferre looked up at Joly. "You know what our supervisors would say."

Joly let out a short laugh which only sounded choked. "To ease his pain rather than continue trying to save him. But, Combeferre," Joly said quietly, "Feuilly is our family. If it came to it, he would not give up on you."

And with that, Combeferre knew he was right. He felt his senses return to him slowly at first, then all at once till it was too much to bear. "My God," he whispered, sitting down on a nearby chair exhaustedly and holding his head in his hands. "How could I give up on him so soon?"

Joly sighed, and it sounded to be one of immense relief and put a hand on Combeferre's shoulder. When Combeferre raised his head, Joly smiled a little in comfort. "I do not think you were giving up on Feuilly. Rather, I believe you were beginning to give up on yourself."

Combeferre let out a small dry laugh. "Either way I was only harming Feuilly." In the silence that passed, Combeferre's jaw tightened with resolve.

Whether or not Combeferre believed Feuilly could survive the horrific disease that had mercilessly wiped out thousands, he would not give up. And, Combeferre thought as he poured Feuilly's tea out into a mug, perhaps Feuilly would prove to be the exception. God only knew in many ways, he already had.

It was then that they heard Enjolras yell for help.


	3. Chapter III

Bossuet was worried when Joly didn't come home. Their shared apartment was dark and quiet upon his return, casting a cloud of disappointment on Bossuet's cheery mood. Joly had said he'd make a brew for Bossuet's sore muscles from the other day's tumble down the stairs, and though Bossuet had by no means been looking forward to one of those dreadful concoctions that tasted of sewer water and lavender, the absence of Joly's warm and excitable presence was a painful discovery.

So he'd waited.

Bossuet was quite efficient in the occupation of being idle; after all, he had almost surpassed Bahorel in the sense that he'd made it into something rather of an art. He knew how to make the seconds and minutes and hours slip away, to watch the hands of the clock swirl and spin and make time fly as if on the wings of the eagle for which Bossuet was often called.

But he'd been waiting too long when the knock at the door finally came.

"Joly, what have you been doing? It's been six _hours_ -"

Bossuet was cut off as Joly threw his arms around Bossuet, clutching at him with a despair Bossuet rarely saw from him. He returned the embrace, smoothing Joly's hair in reassurance for whatever it was that troubled him. Bossuet knew better than to ask. Joly was sensitive and hated to be pressured, and always caved in his own time anyway.

Joly pulled away, his eyes rimmed with red as he gave Bossuet an unconvincing smile. "Apologies, dear friend, only I can't stay for very long. I need you to do something for me."

"Anything."

"Feuilly is ill, and he's upset about his duties at the shop being abandoned. Would you go to his workplace and inform his supervisor?"

"Feuilly is ill?" Bossuet asked, startled. In all the years he'd known the quiet fanmaker, Feuilly had never so much as caught a cold. Fear crept into Bossuet's heart at Joly's serious expression. "Is it serious?"

"It's cholera." Joly finally met Bossuet's eyes, and Bossuet might have thought Joly would burst into tears then until Joly continued matter-of-factly, taking that confident and calculating tone he always did when assessing any other patient's condition. "Combeferre and Enjolras are with him now, though someone really must get Enjolras away. He's not doing Feuilly any good by lying on the floor and making himself sick with worry. I'm going to the hospital to fetch supplies. Can you make sure everyone else knows of Feuilly's condition?" Joly was already beginning to collect himself, and Bossuet took the chance to ask about Feuilly.

"Can I come see him?"

Joly hesitated. "Not yet."

"Why not? Is it because I'm unlucky?" Bossuet couldn't resent Joly for thinking it; if he were in charge of Feuilly's care, he would take every measure possible to secure his safety, regardless of superstitious belief.

Joly's face fell a little and he put a hand on Bossuet's shoulder. "Don't say that, _mon ami._ You know that is not the reason _._ Feuilly is in a critical condition - an hour before I left him he almost - he almost died. Perhaps it is lucky Enjolras was there after all - his shouting must have reached England. Besides, there are enough people in Feuilly's small abode as it is - we cannot spare room for visitors now. I promise I will send news of any changes in Feuilly's condition."

Bossuet nodded, mustering a breezy smile for Joly's sake. "I'd best get to it, then." Joly still watched him, his eyes careful and prodding, and Bossuet knew he was trying to read his thoughts. "Go," Bossuet urged gently, "save Feuilly for us." Joly nodded, and with a quick squeeze of Bossuet's hand, swept out the door.

Bossuet sighed, tugging on his coat and shoes as quickly as he could, and only once outside did he realize he'd forgotten his hat. To hell with it, Bossuet decided, the absence of his hat would only prove the extent of the distress he was feeling for his indisposed friend to any passersby who happened to notice.

As he made his way along the streets, Bossuet felt a pang in his chest as he saw a trio of university students walking arm in arm in the chilly winter night, laughing loudly and probably very much drunk. For a moment he wished again that he were beside Feuilly, that he could hold his hand and assure him all would be well.

Bossuet straightened and quickened his pace. If he could not be with Feuilly, he would do the next best thing and ensure that everything was in order for him when he got better.

Because Feuilly _would_ get better.

* * *

"Enjolras, how long have you been here?"

As Enjolras stirred, Courfeyrac frowned, crouching down next to him, where he was curled up against Feuilly's bed. It seemed that only when Feuilly had finally fallen asleep, Enjolras had allowed himself to doze off.

"Enjolras?" Courfeyrac repeated.

Enjolras opened his eyes. "I'm staying with Feuilly."

Courfeyrac shook his head. "Come, Enjolras. Bossuet says you haven't slept for too long, and you're only adding to Combeferre and Joly's worries. Go home. You're not doing Feuilly any good sleeping on his floor, taking up Combeferre and Joly's space."

Enjolras was about to argue until he glanced at Feuilly, and hesitated. "Courfeyrac," he said, turning his gaze, both intense and pleading, back on Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac nodded, waiting for Enjolras to continue. "Courfeyrac, will you take the watch? I know he has Combeferre and Joly taking care of him, but if he wakes up and needs someone -"

"It's done," Courfeyrac declared, helping Enjolras to his feet and brushing off the dust from Enjolras' shoulders a little. "Now go home, wash yourself up, and sleep. Forgive my bluntness, but you look like the result of a hurricane. You smell it, too."

Courfeyrac ushered Enjolras away with a smile, and when the door was finally shut and he was alone with Feuilly, he sank to the ground where Enjolras had been but a moment before and let the smile fall. Courfeyrac passed a hand over his face, calming the waves of nausea and lightheadedness he felt in Feuilly's room, where the sights and smells of illness were overpowering. He tried to distract himself from his own squeamishness and looked at Feuilly sleeping on the thin cot he used for a bed, curled up in a ball in the little space the bed could allow. Feuilly's breathing was slow and shallow, and his lips, though cracked and dry, shone with a coat of moisture as though he'd just had a drink.

"Enjolras finally left?"

Courfeyrac turned to see Combeferre approaching, holding a steaming mug of tea. Courfeyrac nodded and replied, "Bossuet told me, so I've come to help."

Combeferre gave him a dubious look. "He's very sick, Courfeyrac - will you be alright with all that sickness entails?"

Courfeyrac fought down the blush creeping to his cheeks. Yes, the sight of illness and injury did no good for Courfeyrac's own stomach - but he couldn't see how it should matter when Feuilly was involved. "I will be perfectly fine. Is he any better?"

"Too soon to say. He almost...he came close to death, Courfeyrac, just over an hour ago. We thought he wouldn't get through it." The silence that followed these words was heavy and Courfeyrac thought for a moment that he could see an unfamiliar terror in Combeferre's eyes before he continued talking. "Joly's out fetching some more liniment for Feuilly's cramps, and you can help him apply it." Combeferre gestured for Courfeyrac to move out of the way. "He needs to keep drinking water. Can you…?"

Courfeyrac took the mug and earned a tired smile from Combeferre. "Do you need anything else?"

"No, we only have to wait for Joly and keep an eye on Feuilly."

"Then go rest," Courfeyrac urged, "even for just a few minutes. I'll wake you if Feuilly needs something."

Combeferre nodded, rubbing his hand along his jaw tiredly. "I'll be in the next room over."

Courfeyrac turned his attention back on Feuilly, who looked too peaceful to wake just then. Courfeyrac tried not to let the guilt weigh too heavily at the thought that Feuilly probably had hardly slept peacefully in far too long. He woke Feuilly as gently as he could, and when Feuilly began to stir, letting out a little cry of surprise and pain, Courfeyrac raked gentle fingers through Feuilly's thick shaggy hair and said, "It's Courfeyrac - Combeferre made you some tea."

Feuilly's eyes were only half-open as with Courfeyrac's help, he sat up and obligingly drank the from the mug Courfeyrac held up to his lips. It must have been too much and too quickly, however, because Feuilly suddenly turned dangerously pale and on instinct, Courfeyrac thrust the chamber pot in his direction in time for Feuilly to retch the fluids he'd just taken in. The mug of hot tea Courfeyrac had been holding splashed down over Courfeyrac's trousers, burning his thighs and legs as Courfeyrac let the mug fall, clenching his teeth to keep himself from reacting at the pain. Courfeyrac forced himself into action, blinking back tears and holding Feuilly and sweeping his hair out of the way. Courfeyrac could feel Feuillly shaking with pain and fatigue in his arms, and the hacking cough that reverberated throughout his thin frame. Courfeyrac massaged slow circles on the shaking muscles of Feuilly's back, feeling utterly useless.

Feuilly leaned back a little, finished, his eyes closed and his cheeks flushed red. Courfeyrac helped him lie back down, and wiped at the edges of Feuilly's mouth with his handkerchief.

"I'm sorry," Feuilly whispered, his eyes still closed and the words slow and clumsy, "I know how - how you feel about illness -"

"Sshhh," Courfeyrac hushed him, "Don't you dare apologize, Feuilly. What kind of friend would I be if I didn't stand by you now? You would do the same and more for any of us."

Feuilly murmured something incoherent to Courfeyrac, and was beginning to drift off to sleep again. But Courfeyrac was worried. Feuilly was so lethargic, and it was such a stark contrast to his usual self that Courfeyrac decided to wake Combeferre.

Courfeyrac looked over his shoulder multiple times as he crossed the short distance from Feuilly's room to the kitchen, putting his mind to some ease with the knowledge that at least Feuilly was still breathing.

Courfeyrac heard the whispers floating from the room before he drew in upon Joly and Combeferre in the kitchen,their heads deep in consultation. Joly must have heard Courfeyrac's footsteps and spun around, revealing small glass bowls in each hand coming dangerously close to crashing down on the floor. Joly relaxed on seeing Courfeyrac, but his brow furrowed into a line of confusion and he frowned.

"You're here now too?" Joly glanced at Combeferre, and Courfeyrac hardly even had the energy to cast more than a half-hearted glare in Joly's direction for the irritating remark.

"He helped get Enjolras out of the way," Combeferre said, "and he's been staying with Feuilly for a while." Combeferre noticed the state of Courfeyrac's trousers. "Do I want to know why your trousers are soaked?"

"It's the tea," Courfeyrac said, the words feeling dry on his tongue as he looked between Combeferre and Joly for some sign of what they were thinking, some signal that meant Feuilly would be alright and that he was already on the mend. He didn't want to have to ask the question aloud, and Combeferre must have sensed this.

"We have to wait it out," he said to Courfeyrac, gesturing for Courfeyrac and Joly to follow him back to Feuilly's room. "For now we must ease his pain and keep some water on hand at all times. Come, if you wish to help. If not -"

"I came here to help," Courfeyrac snapped, but was immediately sorry for his quick temper. "Sorry - it's only -"

"I know, Courfeyrac." Combeferre stepped aside, waving him into Feuilly's room. "Come. Let us get Feuilly through this night."

Grateful for Combeferre's unfailing understanding, Courfeyrac felt overwhelming relief that Combeferre was taking charge. He'd never seen him as dedicated to a task as he was now, and it put his mind a little at ease to know that if anything, Combeferre would not give up on Feuilly.

Combeferre and Joly were already positioning themselves around Feuilly's bed, Joly casting aside his jacket and rolling up his sleeves as he took out the liniments and began rubbing them onto Feuilly's aching legs. There was no room for Courfeyrac to help, so as Combeferre and Joly set about their task, Courfeyrac sat by the other end of the bed and took Feuilly's hand, which was hanging from the mattress, in his own, and gave it a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

After what seemed like an eternity, Courfeyrac felt a press on his hand in return.


	4. Chapter IV

When Feuilly woke, his ears were ringing with what sounded like a thousand little bells that amplified with any slight movement he made. He opened his eyes only to be greeted by a blinding light spotted here and there with spots of black. He had no thought in his mind other than a subconscious urge to rise, to move - but his limbs felt like they were weighed down with lead.

As he lay with his eyes squeezed shut, panting heavily, Feuilly tried to make sense of the confusion in his brain. There were questions jumbled there, questions he knew he should be asking, but he could not clear the ringing in his ears for long enough to think. More uncomfortable was the constant feeling of stickiness and _damp -_ he shuddered at the cold of something on his forehead, and with a shaky hand removed a wet towel from his forehead and let it fall to the floor with a squelching sound. Flashes of what Feuilly decided were his memories appeared to him - his cheek pressed against the cold surface of his bedroom floor, fingers carding through his hair, the quiet and serious voice of a doctor - and Feuilly remembered.

He was late for work.

With all the force he could muster in his cramped and aching muscles, Feuilly lowered his legs from the bed, feeling a chill run through his body as his bare feet made contact with the cold floor, and gulping in a breath of air before he let the rest of his body follow and attempt to stand. For a moment he was on his feet, swaying, his vision immediately cutting in and out as his muscles screamed in protest. The world began to spin at dizzying speeds, he saw the ground approaching faster and faster, and he was convinced this was the end, until -

"Feuilly!" The alarmed voice was accompanied by the feeling of strong arms around his waist and slung across his shoulder, lifting him back on his feet and supporting him. Feuilly didn't have the strength to turn his head to discern which of his friends had come to his aid, but it took him only a moment to remember the sound of Enjolras' voice, which, he thought with a distant interest to himself, had an unusual note of what almost sounded like terror in it.

Feuilly was back in his bed the next moment, and he felt Enjolras' hand on his chest - which he suddenly noticed was bare of clothing except for his thin chemise - gently urging him to lay back, but Feuilly resisted.

"Enjolras?" He struggled to form the word for a few seconds, his mouth dry and suddenly accompanied by an extremely unpleasant acidic taste.

"I'm here, Feuilly," Enjolras assured him, and Feuilly saw his brow furrow and the edges of his mouth lift into a tense smile. "You should avoid rising for now unless absolutely necessary. Combeferre says you'll be weak for the next couple of days, and should rest as much as possible."

Feuilly released a long breath and lay back. "I have -"

"Work, I know," Enjolras finished for him, shaking his head. "Bossuet took care of it, Feuilly. You must take this seriously, _mon ami._ You'll recover in the next few days, but Combeferre says if you strain yourself you may relapse. So please, Feuilly," Enjolras implored, his eyes searching Feuilly's with a frightening seriousness, "take care of yourself. Allow yourself to be taken care of."

Feuilly fell silent. As the minutes bore on, Enjolras appeared to grow more uncomfortable in the quiet. "Are you hungry?" He asked hopefully.

Feuilly shook his head, and gave him the same response to an offer of extra blankets. He looked around the room, his vision finally beginning to solidify into a clear picture. "Where is my work?" He asked, squinting to try and find the half-finished painted fans he'd arranged on his shelves and wardrobe.

"Oh, the fans - I think Joly put them away in a safer place - he needed the space for his medical bag. Besides, Courfeyrac came last night, and with him in the room, we didn't want your work to be knocked about."

Feuilly nodded, staring at his hands and slowly working them in knots to relieve the sudden pressure he felt in his chest. After a while, his eyes fell on a small heap of towels and cloths in the corner a few feet away; then on the crumpled and torn sheaths of parchment strewn on the floor, displaying the messy handwriting of Joly. When Feuilly strained to make out what they said, he saw, _monitor for dry mouth, replace towels with fresh ones every hour, hydrate (warm tea or water), apply liniments every two hours._ More instructions detailing the steps of caretaking followed for, from what Feuilly could see, multiple pages and scraps of paper addressed to Courfeyrac, then Enjolras, then Combeferre.

Feuilly's stomach churned as everything he'd seen in his room, everything that Enjolras had said and done, finally sank in.

"I was _ill,_ " Feuilly said. He swallowed as he thought about all that such a state of being called for. "You - Combeferre - Joly - nursed me? How long was I -?"

Enjolras nodded. "Combeferre and Joly. I found you in your room in the morning…" Enjolras paused as he calculated the amount of time that had passed, his brow furrowing again as he concentrated. "Two days ago."

Feuilly stared at the ceiling. His stomach churned again, but this time he did not dismiss it as he'd done before. "Enjolras," he said quietly, too afraid in the moment to hate how his voice was suddenly small and tremorous. "I - I feel -"

Enjolras was holding him up the next instant over the chamber pot as he retched what felt like the remains of everything in his body. When he stopped, he sat, shuddering, squeezing his eyes tight and waiting for the next wave of nausea to knock him senseless and to choke him in his own sick. But it didn't, and as Feuilly slowly came back to himself he felt Enjolras rubbing soothing circles on his back.

Feuilly lay back down and turned his face away from Enjolras.

"Feuilly," Enjolras said gently, "it's alright. Rest, now, and do not worry about your work or being sick. Combeferre will return soon and he will know how to care for you better than I do."

Feuilly silently berated himself for being distant with Enjolras - he knew how difficult it must be now for him to feel helpless. He turned around and gave Enjolras what he hoped was a smile.

"You are a better doctor than you give yourself credit for," Feuilly said, his eyes already half-closed with sleep. "But you are a far better friend. If I sleep now," he continued, forcing his eyes open so he could meet Enjolras' gaze once more, "you...will be here?"

Enjolras nodded. "As long as you want me to."

With that, Feuilly let his eyelids fall and felt himself finally succumb to the last few days of exhaustion in peace.


	5. Chapter V

A loud cheer filled Feuilly’s apartment a few days later, doubtless to the great annoyance of his landlord, as was soon indicated by the muffled string of curses and thumping that came from the floor above. 

The cause for this celebration, of course, Feuilly thought ridiculous. 

“I am only _standing,_ ” he told his friends, who were gathered in a cramped crowd around his apartment. 

Bahorel was behind him, keeping a watchful eye on Feuilly should he topple over the next moment and need support. “Yes, but you could hardly lift your head three days ago,” he said with a proud beam, “look at you now! Perhaps we may have a wrestling match soon so you may regain your strength -” Bahorel stopped at the shake of Combeferre’s head, rolling his eyes. “Oh, alright. Later, then.”

Feuilly smiled a little, feeling a flush spread to his cheeks and ears as the other Amis echoed Bahorel’s encouragement. Embarrassed as he was, he let himself bask in the warmth of his friends’ smiles; they were far more preferable to the sight of brows furrowed in deep concern and forced smiles that had haunted their faces for the last week. He hated that they’d ever had to worry on his account in the first place, and he was determined to never let it happen again. 

Still, he thought as he looked around him fondly, there couldn’t possibly be a man alive with such good friends as he had. If he had to be nursed and fussed over by anyone, he was glad it was them. 

“You should return to bed now,” Combeferre told him, and for once Feuilly was grateful for the suggestion. Already his limbs were beginning to ache uncomfortably, and he’d taken to leaning on Bahorel’s arm in the last minute. He allowed Bahorel to lead him back to his bed, and lay back against his pillows. 

The Amis fell into a comfortable space of quiet but companionable conversation amongst themselves and settled around the room accordingly: Courfeyrac, Bossuet, and Joly sat close together on the floor in front of Feuilly’s bed, their heads occasionally brushing against Feuilly’s elbow when they threw them back in laughter or looked back on Feuilly, every quick gaze full of relief and affection. Bossuet especially seemed to be unable to stop checking on him for more than a few minutes at a time; when Bossuet had seen Feuilly for the first time since catching sick, he’d hugged him hard, and had to be pried away by Joly when Feuilly nearly fainted from lack of air. 

“I’m sorry,” Bossuet had said bashfully after the fact, “I’m only glad to see you well - as I knew you would be, of course.” They’d shared a look, and Bossuet had embraced him again before allowing the others to see him. 

Jehan was now sitting on the very edge of the foot of Feuilly’s bed, while Bahorel sat all the way back on the bed and placed Feuilly’s legs on his lap so he wouldn’t be sitting on themt. Feuilly raised his eyebrows, and Bahorel gave a shrug. 

“Elevation of the legs increases blood circulation,” Bahorel said matter-of-factly. Feuilly glanced at Combeferre with amusement, who only shook his head again and smiled. When he looked closer at Combeferre, though, Feuilly thought he saw tears glistening in his eyes. 

“Combeferre!” Feuilly exclaimed softly, “are you crying?”

“No,” Combeferre said, a very obvious tear falling down his cheek as he spoke. He didn’t bother to wipe it away, but only adjusted his spectacles. “Or, perhaps - no, I’m alright. Now that I know you will not be leaving us any time soon, dear friend.” He took and squeezed Feuilly’s hand, and Feuilly thought he might have cried had he not been so tired. 

“Do you need anything else?” Joly asked after a pause, the emotions and fears and reliefs over the week’s events having been stirred again. “Some water? More blankets?”

“I -”

“Some food? Are you hungry yet?” Courfeyrac chimed in, frighteningly ready to take on the role of caretaker for Feuilly once more. 

“Thank you, all of you,” Feuilly said, his voice overflowing with earnest, “but I think I need -”

“Rest?”

It was Enjolras who spoke, who was still a little removed from the rest of the group since they’d all arrived. He hadn’t said a word in all the time he’d been there, but Feuilly knew his silence was in no part due to indifference. 

Feuilly nodded apologetically. 

Combeferre nodded, eyes full of understanding. “Of course. Joly and I will return soon to check on you, and we’ll bring some food, alright?”

In agreement, the Amis began to shuffle out of the apartment, each leaving Feuilly with a brief embrace or squeeze of the hand; when it was only Enjolras left, Feuilly met his brilliant gaze clouded with something somber, and noticed Enjolras’ brow still lined with concern.

“Will you stay?” Feuilly asked, keeping his gaze steady. Enjolras’ face lifted into an expression of mild surprise, but there was an intense relief in his eyes. 

“If that is what you wish,” Enjolras replied, failing to hide a tiny smile from Feuilly as he seated himself on his customary stool near Feuilly’s bed. Feuilly shook his head, looking at Enjolras shyly. 

“In bed? Till I fall asleep, at least?” 

Enjolras hesitated, and Feuilly thought he might refuse. He should have known better, of course Enjolras would be uncomfortable -

Enjolras only nodded warmly. He removed his boots and gingerly settled on the edge of Feuilly’s bed till Feuilly moved a few inches to the side so he might lie down as well. Enjolras slipped an arm under Feuilly’s neck and over his shoulder, his hand resting over Feuilly’s heart. 

“Are you comfortable?” Enjolras whispered. Feuilly’s eyes were already heavy, but before he succumbed to the warm darkness pulling him towards sleep he murmured in response, 

“Thank you.”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
